Through The Gates Of Hell
by AutumnAtMidnite
Summary: A troubling case of Jack The Ripper-esque murders are brought to Holmes, but he soon learns that not only might it be insoluble, uncovering the mystery could have worse consequences than quitting the case. On hiatus.
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: This is something of a sequel to my "Friend & Associate" fic, but can be read alone and still (hopefully) be coherent. This is a WIP, however, the first few chapters are complete; though I am in the process of *heavily* editing them. With any luck, I should have the next part up soon._

_This is narrated entirely in Holmes' POV, and it is my first attempt to write in his voice. Would appreciate any feedback on whether or not I am pulling that off. It's been a challenge to write in Holmes' voice, to say the least. _

_Rated for mild violence and descriptions of said violence._

_As a side note, this was originally started for NaNoWriMo … until the worst case of writer's block struck. If my writing style is a bit crude, I apologize in advance and blame it all on NaNoWriMo. __J_

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_**From The Personal Case Files of Sherlock Holmes & Dr. John H. Watson**_

_**Released From The Vaults of Cox & Co.**_

_**Prologue **_

After so many years of being subjected to the incessant prompting of my dear Watson to take up my pen, I have, after much consideration, decided the time has come to divulge that case which nearly demolished this singular little occupation of mine. Whilst my name has never before been associated with the investigation, it is one that should be well remembered by the public, despite the passing of long years since its occurrence. It is, by no means, an investigation I was proud of, albeit, the eventual outcome _was_ in my favor.

Nevertheless, it cannot be claimed as one of my great successes.

There was no pervading sense of glory or triumph which normally proceeds the successful conclusion of a case; no satisfaction of having solved the thing. Only great relief that it was finally over, that the perpetrator would trouble us no more.

Under normal circumstances, I pride myself on being a reasonably intelligent man -- fact of the matter is I manage to make a comfortable living entirely off the use of my profound wits. Yet at the crux of this case, I felt at best the most infinitely stupid man in all creation. Here I betrayed all my instincts, disregarded my own common sense and failed to do what I so often accuse others of -- failing to observe the obvious. It remains to be the lowest point of my career, my life.

This seemingly petty little problem began as one of Lestrade's investigations that proved to be so impossibly knotted he eventually conceded that the solving of this singular puzzle was best left in my hands. Even by my standards, I must admit -- for the logician must always be honest with himself and present the facts as they are, not as he wishes them to be -- that this vexing little conundrum seemed to be beyond even my capabilities. It was something I realized would prove to be so profoundly simple once all the skeins were unraveled, but the sheer simplicity of the matter, I am loathe to admit, prevented even me from grasping all the threads. There was one pivotal fact I was missing and no progress would be made on the case until I was able to shed light on this one elusive dark corner.

Approaching three weeks into the oft cold trail, it was Lestrade who eventually advised me to quit the case. If I am to be forthright, for all involved, the aforementioned entreaty may have been the most sensible option, all things considered. The man had never asked such a thing of me, nor had anyone ever implored me to resign my services before, save for Watson -- but even then only halfheartedly or if I was in some severe danger. Yet he had always followed me anyway. I swear to all that is holy the man would follow me through the very gates of hell to protect me, if only such a thing was even possible.

Ah! I see my Boswell's habits are surely rubbing off on me. He has me recounting the story in reverse and inserting far too much romanticizing and introspecting into it even at this early juncture. What I originally sought to pen as an educational instruction to map out the steps which led to my failures in this endeavor, seems to have, of it's own volition, turned into one such romanticized tale. He has informed me that to include such details in this account would not be embellishment, but the stating of facts in a more elaborate fashion.

I cannot argue with such well stated logic, but rest assured, I have _not _sunk to such levels of poetic twaddle. The dear doctor has acted as my editor in this little literary foray of mine (though I dare say this work did not require one) and thus, he insisted on embellishing the thing before it was submitted for publication. All credit for any flowery prose which may occur goes entirely to my Watson. As such, this is more of a collaborative effort, however, for several reasons, it will be narrated from my perspective.

So, to commence this tale from where it should have properly begun in the first place, _"The Case"_ as I have come to refer to it, was brought to my attention by Inspector Lestrade during the first week of November '97.

* * *

_**Chapter 1 **_

We were already familiarized with the murders, dubbed by the press as the Buck's Row Butcher for the half dozen corpses found within a concentrated few blocks in that very locale of the East End in as many weeks. The likes of it could only be rivaled by those grotesque Jack The Ripper slayings of the previous decade, and at first, it did appear to be the same culprit; or one lunatic individual seeking to continue the work of the original. Even I was inclined to admit it did appear that Scotland Yard's theory of an imitation crime was a valid one, for the first corpse was found within a few feet of where the mutilated corpse of Polly Nichols, a victim of Jack The Ripper, was discovered.

Save for very the act of murder itself, however, these killings lacked the _outré_ depravity of the Ripper slayings -- or more aptly put, the Ripper mutilations. Death had been achieved by strangulation, this fact was blatantly obvious even to the blunderers at Scotland Yard. But, this fellow was not dubbed the Buck's Row Butcher for nothing. The eyes of his victims were gouged out and carved upon the forehead of each victim was a roman numeral corresponding to the order in which they had been slain.

Such were the facts as they were made available to the public.

In my perusal of the reports in _The Times, _I gathered there was a good deal more being withheld that, for the criminal investigator, would be instrumental to the solving of this thing. Too many loose threads, evasions or outright falsehoods quoted from the official detectives on the case. It gave one the overall appearance of the facts being honeyed over either for the benefit of stifling the mass hysteria that was brewing from the onset or to throw the actual murderer off the Yard's scent in the event he was watching the papers for any slip ups he may have made. The latter seemed a more reasonable theory, yet to assume such is perhaps expecting a bit too much of the capabilities of our official police force.

It was a dreary evening, the first in a succession of blizzards that would strike the city in the ensuing weeks, when Inspector Lestrade came to seek out our unofficial assistance in apprehending the Buck's Row Butcher. Watson and I were scarcely settled in, having returned only a quarter of an hour before from an abysmally long train journey from the continent, fresh from solving a particularly abstruse case whose details, in consideration of the sensitive nature of the thing, I m still obliged to conceal.

Here we sat in our armchairs opposite the fire; I curled up in my purple dressing gown, smoking my black clay pipe, my companion nodding over one of his tawdry sea novels. The chill was only just subsiding from deep within my bones when there came an unduly obstreperous pounding upon our front door.

"Watson, do get the door. There's a good chap."

My companion awoke with a start, swearing oaths as he descended the hall stairs that I shall not, for proprieties sake, repeat here. What one might learn in the army is apparently not confined to military stratagem.

He returned to our rooms in better spirits, not quite delighted to see our old friend at this ungodly hour, though I'm sure he was certainly grateful it was he rather than Stanley Hopkins.

"Ah, come about the Buck's Row case, I suppose?"

"Mr. Holmes! How ever did you guess?"

"Hmph." said I, a bit nettled. "I am not in the habit of guessing, Inspector," I continued as Watson guided him over to the settee. "The reasoning is simplicity itself. I observed from the newspaper accounts of late that you are the leading investigator on this case. What else might it mean then, when you are so preoccupied at the moment with these Buck's Row murders, yet solicit my services nigh on two in the morning in this bedeviling storm? Have a cigar, Lestrade, and pray, give us the details."

As was his wont, Watson sat back down into his own armchair, taking out his notebook to jot down the highlights of the Inspector's narrative. It is primarily from the aforementioned notes I recount the following, as once a case has been laid to rest either by it's solving or other form of resolution, the mental concentration I require for the succeeding investigation inevitably cause the details of others to grow dim in my brain. It has always been a maxim of mine that one's brain attic must remain as free of extraneous clutter as possible, should the logical mind care to operate with utmost efficiency. Therefore I refer to the doctor's notes as well as my own recollection of events. I shall refrain from including anything but the barest of facts, as they were laid out before us.

The Inspector, it seemed, had sought us out after returning from the latest murder, on Whitechapel Road. It was undoubtedly the handiwork of the Buck's Row Butcher -- a strangulated corpse, the roman numeral seven carved into the brow.

"He's taunting us, Mr. Holmes. This is a diabolical business, and after what I have laid my eyes upon tonight, I do believe the official force is in over its head. You would be doing us a great service by assisting our investigation. We bally well don't know what to make of it."

"That seems to me the perpetual state of Scotland Yard," I noted.

"Will you help us, then, Mr. Holmes?"

"Of course he will!" The doctor interjected.

"That settles the matter, then. Do get on with it now, and give me the _facts_."

"Well, the major points are thus: Seven weeks ago now -- that would be on the night of September 7th -- the first victim met his end. He was an average, middle aged male, which is the general description that can be applied to all the victims. Richard Morris, 41, a fishmonger by trade, oft the bane of the East End constabulary as he was a notorious drunk, and a violent one to boot," Lestrade proceeded to wag his finger at me as if to stress the point. "Eyeballs were gouged out, one positioned in his left hand, the other presumably taken by the killer. The roman numeral one was carved into his brow, and from what we can make of it, he likely met his end by strangulation with some queer object whose exact type we are at a loss to identify. For accuracy's sake, I must mention we found a singular tarot card at every locale, although we are not even certain this holds any validity to the crime, nor have we made this feature available to the public."

"Upon the victim or beside them?"

"On them. Always laid out on them like some vile display."

Here he reached into an inner pocket and presented me with a photograph of the body taken at the morgue. The first victim of this madness.

It was a challenge to discern such details as facial features or hair color, but what I could ascertain was a raw, ugly mark circling the neck of a man who was in a state of partial undress, rivulets of blood dripping into his ears, clinging to his moustache and the lapels of his coat. The scarred brow had bled profusely, then.

Whatever tarot card had been on the victim's person was now removed for the purpose of the photograph.

Seeing the corpse firsthand would have been far preferable, so that I could clearly discern any clues which would not be made implicit by the weak lens of the camera or the grainy quality of the photo. Though it was no great feat to conclude the murder weapon from what I had been provided with.

After a moment of careful scrutiny of the thing, I made presented the baffled Inspector with my deductions.

"Clearly, this man was attacked from behind and strangled with a sizeable metal chain, probably one liberally coated in rust. You will do well to seek out a well muscled man of no inconsiderable size. A peculiarly tall, active man in every way and endowed with the build of an athlete, no doubt. He is a reasonably well educated man whom you should not likely find living in the same area he uses as his hunting grounds. He should be an easy one to distinguish should you happen upon him here, for I suspect his natural accent to be more refined than that of your average East Ender. Although, I am certain he _is _intimately familiar with the location somehow.

"That he has little knowledge of practical anatomy is grossly apparent, and I am sure you will find he carries about his person or locate amongst his effects, a dull blade pocket knife. These are, of course, only the obvious facts I can deduce from this rather poor photograph."

"My dear Holmes!"

"Oh, come now, Mr. Holmes, this is not the place for jokes at the expense of our investigation. I understand _you _would conduct the thing so much better than our finest men, but really man! I don't see the humour."

"My dear sir," said I "I do assure you that I am indeed serious, and that my reasoning is perfectly sound. That the murder weapon was a rusted chain and the man was attacked from behind is simplicity itself. See how the bruising around the throat forms a clear impression nearly one full inch in width, with gaps in between the upper and lower regions -- yet we have clear outlines of bruising at exact intervals in between. What else could cause such impressions but an object that is linked, such as a chain? It must be rusted as you can just make out the flecks of said rust clinging to the skin, and also note the minor abrasions made by the chafing of the rust. A smooth chain would not have caused this. We know the murderer must be of an athletic build as this body in the photograph is that of a squarely built, healthy man in the prime of life who surely could fight off a weaker assailant.

"Is it also not apparent that when a man writes in Roman numerals, whilst your average ruffian would barely be literate or able to write, should choose this more elaborate method of enumerating his victims? Bear in mind he is acting out in the open and must make the utmost haste. Would it not be quicker to carve out numbers? Of course it would, to an uneducated man, killing on sheer impulse. But our man is cunning. He has crafted this crime thoroughly and his deeds may not be so random as you believe.

"Furthermore, we know he is intimately familiar with the area as he is so readily able to elude capture. He knows his way in and out, the back alleys, shortcuts, the schedules of the businesses and inhabitants. For not one single witness to have come forward as of yet is strange when there have been so many victims, and all of the Whitechapel district on the alert for his presence. He works here; I believe his presence would not be questioned even if he were to be seen. Which I strongly suspect he has been, although the witnesses do not realize it. File that bit of information in your brain, Watson, for we may find it a useful point in this investigation."

"Well, you reasoned it out beautifully, old fellow, but how do you deduce the killer owns a blunt edged pocket knife?"

"Ah, that is the simplest point of all, my dear Watson. Had he used a long, sharp bladed knife, we should expect to see a clean, fastidious cut used to remove the eyeballs from their sockets. Instead, what we have here is a sloppy, bloody mess in what otherwise should have been an easy job for so savage a killer. The veins and tendons holding the eye in the socket are not cleanly cut, so the knife was dull. The blade we know to be a short one judging from how high up the tendons have been severed. A man plunging in a knife does so nearly to the hilt, therefore, we would see more tendon cut out. Consider that the numerals on the brow are also rather ragged and have bled to an unusual extent; it must have taken our man some effort to carve them. That it is a pocket knife is speculation, I admit, but a very plausible one."

"His lack of knowledge in anatomy, then?"

"The very fact that he ever fancied a human body could be easily sliced with such a tool. It would be no great leap to suppose that those other photographs whose outlines I can just make out in your inner pocket, Lestrade, will show cleaner, more fastidious workmanship in his defacing of the corpses?"

"Good heavens! You are certainly correct! Why, this is genius!" remarked the Inspector.

I waved my hand in dismissal. "Commonplace. But, tell me more of this tarot card found on all the victims."

"Well, there is nothing much to tell of that. In every instance, it's the same thing, a tarot card depicting the Wheel of Fortune, always in the reversed position, tucked neatly into the waist of their trousers. We're sure it must hold no actual significance, a red herring meant to dull the scent of any real clues."

"Oh, yes, a red herring, no doubt. All the same, can you describe these cards, remarkable about them?"

"Now that you mention it, they were common enough in that the designs could be found on most any deck of tarot cards, I suppose, save for one feature."

I leaned forward in my chair, momentarily meeting the gaze of the doctor, and knowing me as he does, caught the slightest spark of excitement in my eyes. "Go on."

"Well, the design, as I mentioned, is nothing special, but they are uncharacteristically well made, likely hand painted, I'd say. The paper was rather thick as well, nothing like the feel of an ordinary deck of cards."

"Is each one identical to the other?"

"Yes, they appear to be exact replicas."

"And always placed in a reversed position, so that the card itself would be upside down?"

"Correct, in all instances it has been such. A strange business, I must say, Mr. Holmes, but it seems to me a great waste of time to place such importance on so trivial a detail."

Which was precisely why our good inspector was at such a loss at solving this little puzzle. I have always contended that there was nothing so important as trifles. To me, this was a telling clue, perhaps the only speck of light in this black tunnel, and I was weaving the threads of my case, already certain where I must begin my inquiries.

"Of course, I should require a visit to the location of the latest crime as soon as possible, granted that nothing has been touched, if I am to learn anything further. But in the meantime, I should like to know who was the constable who discovered the first victim? I have hopes he may be able to shed some light on our man if he was as clumsy as I believe him to have been."

The Inspector's beady, rat-like eyes darted between us. He attempted to speak but choked on the words. The man appeared for all the world as though I'd just struck him a blow.

"What is it, man? Speak up if you know something!"

"It's just that … it … it was … Inspector Cartwright."

I confess it. The very name was enough to evoke a lingering shudder from me.

It wasn't as though I feared the man or had a respectful dislike of him such as I did with the late but not lamented Professor Moriarity. It was simply that the memory of him left a foul taste in my mouth. Some fourteen years had passed since my last encounter with the arrogant little upstart, wherein the course of a heated row I _may_ have pointed a revolver at his head and threatened to secret his body in the cellar of our flat. In my defense, he had stormed into our rooms intent on doing me great bodily harm, where I was in the throes of fever after recovering from a bullet wound I strongly suspected came from a gang he had ties with, though there was never anything so frivolous as proof. I also _may _have arranged it that certain official evidence was "adjusted" so as to prove their guilt and while there was nothing tangible connecting Cartwright to these thugs, my improvements did make it appear as if he'd been negligent in his duties and overlooked critical evidence. This cost the man a demotion -- a well deserved one, so far as I am concerned. He had, in fact, called my Watson obtuse in front of me, which was not a remarkably intelligent thing to do.

My companion groaned audibly as he rose to pour himself a glass of brandy. "I'm hesitant to admit this, but if it's all the same to you, Holmes, might we not find some way around this?"

"No, no. It's essential I hear his firsthand account."

"He could refuse to speak with us." I'm still uncertain if this was wishful thinking or a statement of practicality on his part.

"We can but try."

"I suppose we have no other choice," Watson stated with a resigned sigh, downing his brandy in one swift gulp.

"Now, Lestrade, there is only one more point I can think of at present which may be of use. You have relayed the major facts of the case but what of the minor ones, no matter how irrelevant they may seem?"

There was scarce details to be had, and even less our friend the Inspector was at liberty to divulge to us. I despise having a mystery on both ends of the case, it is quite distracting with the compounded problem of making an already abstruse problem deucedly tricky to unwravel. Resort to threats as I might, Lestrade, who normally will cave into my demands, would not, for all the world, loosen his tongue on what I believed to be critical details of evidence that might allow me to work out the solution in a more timely manner. He insisted that the details were of no great import to me, only to the constables on the beat so that they may prevent another gruesome act of murder form occurring.

Some sort of description, then. But of whom? Surely not of the murderer, for a highly detailed sketch and written depiction of his dress, age, height, suspected social class and so on were readily available to the public. Obviously, this pertained to the victims, yet why should he be so adamant that I not have this information at my fingertips when he was not in the least hesitant to present me with their photographic replicas? If it was truly of no import to the investigation, what was the harm in allowing me to see a copy of the private reports on the sly, as he had done for me on innumerable occasions?

My desire in taking on this complicated case was too great to turn it down over such a trifle, yet the question of the Inspector's secrecy when I'd been specifically asked to do this as a favor to the Yard, worried at the back of my brain. Something here that I was overlooking _or _simply not observing. Something profound. Whatever it might have been was not clear to me, not in the least.


	2. Chapter 2

Not often did it snow heavily in the heart of London, but when it did so, all evidence of Nature's presence was hastily trodden underfoot by the continual ebb and flow of cabs and the great swarming crowds all rushing to go about their commonplace daily lives. This winter, though, we were not afforded with the visually unappealing slush. Rather, as the city was pummeled for nearly a fortnight with a succession of blizzards the likes of which had not been seen in many a year, my faithful chronicler and I were forced to trudge our way through shin deep drifts of snow in the seediest alleys of the Whitechapel district. It was within one of these dilapidated row houses of overgrown gnarled and withered vines that I felt we had the greatest chance of verifying the only palpable clue in our possession thus far.

As we turned onto Montague Street -- well, more accurately, as _I _turned onto Montague Street, as being entirely more active than Watson, I was far more capable of manouevering in the wintry conditions than he -- I barked out a cry of triumph. For at last I sound that which brought us out on so inhospitable a night. Scrawled on a bronze plaque that barely clung to the door by one rusted nail were the nearly illegible words corroded by decades of weather erosion:

'_Madame Morgana's Séance's & Psychic Readings.' _

"Upon my word, old fellow," Watson panted as he caught up to me. "You lived _here_?"

"Well, not in this particular establishment, no" said I, pounding upon the rusted knocker of No. 113, hoping the infernal thing would refrain from crumbling to dust in my hand. "But, yes, this is where I resided when I first came up to London. If the blasted light here were better you might be able to discern my old lodgings towards the far end of the street."

He pulled in closer and took my arm, shivering almost imperceptibly, though I suspected it had little to do with the cold. While I cannot be sure, I believed I heard him whisper something by the way of _"Thank Heavens for Stamford …" _

Thank Heavens, indeed.

"I still say this could have waited until morning," he mumbled. The doctor has, thus far, failed to grasp the concept of urgency during the throes of an investigation.

"My dear fellow, we mustn't remain idle while our best leads go cold."

"Yes, but how can you possibly know that this is where all those tarot cards originated from? Surely, you don't mean to search them all. There must be nigh on a dozen in Whitechapel alone!"

"Obviously. Yet how many fortune tellers are a five minute stroll away from the scene of each murder? Three of them, including the first and last, were found along Whitechapel Road, if you recall, which conveniently intersects with _Madame Morgana's _humble little abode. Even Lestrade could grasp the implications of that."

Of course, he could not deny my logic, yet I suspect he remained nettled upon the subject of lingering upon doorsteps in the small hours of the morning when one's time may be better occupied snuggled in bed by a roaring fire.

We stood waiting for several long minutes on the deserted street, I myself finding ever more appeal in returning home at some decent hour.

"Holmes, it appears that no one is home." He was unable to fully hide the trace of a smile forming at the corner of his lips.

As if in answer, the door abruptly swung open, revealing a rather fetching***** young red haired woman in a dark fringe skirt and un-tucked blouse patterned with elaborate Celtic knots, her feet bare. Despite the hour being an unconventional one to go calling on strangers, she appeared as alert and refreshed as she might have been at three o' clock in the afternoon. Not at all did she give the impression of someone who had just been roused from their bed.

"Madame Morgana?" I inquired, to which she nodded in accordance.

"Ah, the great detective himself. I've been expecting you, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. Come in out of the cold, and the doctor, as well, of course. Step right this way," said she with a flourish of her hand, stepping aside to grant us passage.

How she ever knew of our identities, I am uncertain, though I saw straight through her rather thinly veiled parlor trick meant to impress us with the sense she was a genuine soothsayer. I was having none of it. I've played some meretricious parlor tricks of my own for the sole benefit of my clients, I must admit, therefore I was adept at recognizing her deception for what it was. This agency, as I have said oft before, lies flat footed on the ground and foolish superstition holds no sway with us.

Without another word, the gypsy woman led us down a narrow hallway of peeling green wallpaper, lit up only by a double candle sconce on either side. We passed through a curtain of multi-colored crystal beads into a spacious, yet poorly lit parlor adorned with potted jungle ferns in every available crevice, bookshelves cluttered with glass jars containing all manner of curiosities from dried flowers to murky liquids, replication skulls (or one would be hopeful these things were in fact replicas of the genuine article), rolled up scrolls, loose candles and a dozen other oddities that were more numerous than the actual volumes. A long table in the center, dressed with a black lace skirt and a threadbare crimson settee underneath a filth encrusted window comprised the sum of furniture in the room. The only source of light was a partially guttered candle on the table, which the gypsy picked up as she led us to an antechamber with a beckoning finger. Watson, being his usual overly practical self, clutched me by the wrist as I entered the threshold, urging me not to follow.

"You know I have never been the sort who gives himself over to fanciful thinking, but I've a terrible feeling about this case, that woman, this forsaken house; everything. I don't like any of it."

"I'm not about to drop a case on a whim of yours, my boy."

"I am well aware of that, nor do I expect you to. Only, it's just that you can be so damnably careless sometimes. If I'd not brought my old service revolver we'd be unarmed about now, in this vile place in the dead of night." His voice broke into a whisper, "_Please_. Be on your guard, then."

"I shall." But I did not mean it and though he let the subject rest, I knew I hadn't deceived him. He has a remarkable capacity for reading me, which I have never learned to guard myself against. Perhaps, I do not even care to.

Being windowless, the antechamber was cast in near total darkness. The gypsy's face glowed in the flicker of the candle she held as she bade us follow her up a rickety staircase appearing to lead to the garret. Apparently, she believed us to be two occultists come for some impromptu palm reading.

"Madame, you must be confused. We are here on official business, specifically to make inquiries on a deck of very singular tarot cards I believe you peddle."

"Your business is no concern of mine, but your fate -- Ah! That is another matter entirely."

"It surely _will _concern you if I report your unwillingness to cooperate with a murder investigation to the Constabulary."

"Yes, Mr. Holmes. _'Murder most foul.' _And closer to home than you expect," said she, turning back to with a wry smile.

"I promise you, madame, if that is a threat, you will come to regret it dearly."

I've often told Watson not even the best of women can be trusted, and this lady -- whom I only refer to as such for lack of a word which will not offend the sensibilities of my readers -- was proof incarnate of my theory. She actually had the impudence to let out a high pitched cackle that induced the hairs on the back of my neck to rise.

This does not often occur.

"You are in no position to say such things to me, for mark my words, it will be you who comes begging to me like a dog if you choose not to heed my advice! Instead of whining, why do you not simply accept what assistance I can offer?"

I do not appreciate being addressed in such a churlish manner by anyone, and it was especially intolerable from this petulant gypsy woman who fairly well may have had some not insignificant involvement in these ghastly crimes. With pride, I can boast that I do not fall victim to a woman's charms, nor am I swayed by their emotive fits of temper designed to strike fear into a man's breast. Well, this had no effect upon me, and in no uncertain terms I made this known to her.

She grinned so wide I was tempted, for the sole instance in my life, to strike a woman.

"Rest assured, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, far be it from me to captivate you with my 'charms'. I can see that would not be effective …" after a measured pause she added "On such a reasoning machine as yourself. Now, you've come to me for a purpose, I suppose? Then, pray, do not the both of you continue to stand there like two idle loafers and _do_ step this way, gentleman."

Without so much as waiting for a response, the gypsy turned her back on us and mounted the narrow, creaking staircase.

"I suppose we don't have much of a choice, do we? No, no Holmes," he held up a warning hand as I was about to protest, "I find it makes life so much easier when one lets a woman have her way. There is no arguing with the fair sex. They're _always _in the right, especially when they're not." He didn't even linger to hear the response on my lips, was following after her before his words registered in my brain.

It seemed, as we ascended the cobweb laden stairway, I was hopelessly outnumbered ...

* * *

My assumption that we were headed towards the garret proved to be an accurate one. Unfortunately for me, it was hardly more than a glorified crawl space no more than twelve feet in length and approximately half that in width, with a pitched roof so low I was forced to hunch over. At the far end was a circular stained glass window, along with the mere stump of a candle resting on a tiny round table covered with a dark tassel fringed cloth, was our only source of illumination. On the centre of this table was a large silver bowl filled to the brim with water, its rim embedded with what appeared to be decent sized emeralds, the sides embossed with the depiction of a tree whose roots intertwined into each other not unlike the pattern of knots she wore on her clothing. The place was thick with the unmistakable scent of burning incense; sage, if my nose did not deceive me.

The gypsy was already seated when we made our way inside, stirring the water in a counterclockwise fashion with a jagged twig, no less. She motioned for us to take our seats at this table, and, pulling up two wooden crates, we did so. Laying her stick down, she clasped the sides of the bowl and proceeded to stare intently into the thing.

"_What the deuce?" _My chronicler wanted to know. For once, I dare say our thoughts were perfectly paralelled.

"Hush!"

We cast each other an amused glance as I leaned back to enjoy the show. This promised to be quite singular, if naught else. This spectacle of gazing into the still waters of her bowl continued for the next several minutes, until I could stand the nonsensical proceedings no longer.

"Madame, we really must get on with --"

"SILENCE!"

Upon my word.

If she gave the appearance of eccentricity before, once she commenced humming over the confounded thing, I became veritably convinced we were in the presence of a Bedlamite. Truly, if it were not for her sporadic remonstrances at our most inappropriate snickering, one would wonder if she had even recalled our presence in the room, so engrossed was she in staring into the clear water of the bowl.

Watson has often mentioned that the stage lost a great actor when I gave my life over to the profession of private consulting detective. One could also argue that the stage suffered a similar blow the day our Madame Morgana picked up her crystal ball. At random intervals, the gypsy let out an affected gasp, moan, or in one memorable instance, a fit akin to an attack of brain fever. For all his effort in attempting to tend to her during the latter performance, the good doctor, whom I do not believe was duped by her display but nonetheless could not stand idly by with all his medical instincts in a flutter, was batted away with some force for his efforts.

Once she quit her sound effects, she began to set her bowl to quivering, causing the water to slosh about messily. I observed the woman for any telltale signs of how this deception was carried out, but with her feet flat on the floor and her hands twined in her fiery hair, all I could perceive was perhaps there was some sort of motorized contraption built into the table.

The crowning achievement of her performance came when she thrust her face into the bowl, flailing her arms wildly as though she wished us to believe she was actually being drowned in a glorified wash basin not of her own volition. I resisted the urge to applause.

Rattled by this display, however, my Watson again rushed in to help the woman, grasping her arms and heaving her weight towards him with a great effort. One would find themselves hard pressed to put up a successful struggle against my old campaigner friend, despite his various war injuries, yet this frail woman was trying the limits of his strength. The amusement instantly vanished from the situation when his face contorted in pain as she writhed frantically in his arms, undoubtedly having struck the proper nerve in his bad shoulder.

I rushed to his aid, and it was only with a concerted effort betwixt the two of us that we were able to finally extricate the gypsy from the suctioning force that was inexplicably drowning her in mere inches of water. And were met with blatant ingratitude for our efforts.

"Sit back down!" she snarled as she righted her chair that had been overturned in the struggle and resumed her seat as if nothing untoward had just occurred. Her lips, I could not help but notice, were tinged blue. Taking things just a bit too far for her elaborate charade, I'd say.

With hardly an upwards glance at us, she began to speak, her tone so desultory it gave one the impression of multiple voices speaking through her.

Both of us complied with her wishes and again took our seats, more out of curiosity than in the hopes of prying any useful information from her. It was clear we were not dealing with a woman who held a tight grasp on her mental faculties, and with that revelation came the realization my most promising clue had slipped through my fingers. Short of ransacking the entirety of her quarters, our presence here was becoming increasingly useless with each passing tick of the clock.

With glassy eyes that, I must confess, cut through the darkened room quite eerily, sending a shiver up my spine, Madame Morgan looked straight through us, her eyes fixed on our own yet it seemed she saw us not at all. Though judging from the way he shifted in his chair, I presume this had the same effect upon Watson.

"Back out of this case now," said the gypsy, resuming her normal low, sonorous voice, "or I warn you, only suffering can be wrought from your continued meddling."

"Seriously, madame!" This was really too amusing.

"Revenge."

"I beg your pardon?"

"These are crimes of revenge."

Her breathing came in heavy, agitated gasps. "He can taste the sweetness of it on his lips. So long, waiting, biding his time … his day is coming at last."

"Madame, if you know something, do cut out this ostentatious display and _get on with it_!"

"He has a message for the Great Detective -- _'catch me if you can'_."

I bolted upright, pointing my finger at the gypsy. "You know him, then? Out with it!"

"Holmes, calm yourself, old fellow. Look at her eyes. She's in some sort of hypnotic trance. It's not unheard of for some of the most well respected alienists to give credence to this peculiar behavior of the entranced mind."

"Rubbish. It is as I suspected; she has firsthand knowledge of these crimes, and best make a full confession of it or -- Jove! -- I'll do something drastic!"

"You'll do nothing of the sort," the doctor warned me. "You may inadvertently bring her to harm if you rouse her from this state. Besides, this really is too intriguing an example of self hypnosis! You know of my interest in obscure nervous diseases."

I assented, but only reluctantly, mind you.

More groanings from our thespian gypsy. "He seeks to bring about your destruction. He shall take what is precious to you, then watch as you suffer, deliciously slowly, see the torment in your eyes before he thrusts his final blow. His _coup de grâce. _Your undoing."

_**

* * *

**_

_***** I must needs mention this is only included at the behest of the doctor. Completely extraneous information._


	3. Chapter 3

_**Chapter 3**_

Moments later, we turned off Montague Street, heading back onto the Whitechapel Road; my companion markedly unnerved by, yet I intrigued with our first foray into the realm of psychic investigations. A fair load of codswallop to be sure, but that did nothing to hamper my interest. In fact, as the case grew increasingly murky, it served only to further pique any enthusiasm. If nothing else, this did promise to be a significant challenge.

As we advanced northeast up Whitechapel Road, the vaguest outline of a plan was turning over in my brain -- but even if what I meant to do ended favorably, I should still be left with another skein to untangle. The outcome would not provide a solution, only one more crevice in which to search for said solution. If it ended poorly … ah! It was a poor habit indeed to ruminate on such things. Infinitely better for the nerves, and entirely more useful in keeping unfounded theories at bay.

In retrospect, however, I begin to wonder if being kicked from there to Charring Cross was a fitting means to compel the return of my common sense; considering what consequences were tied to my ensuing imprudent actions. Yet, one must admit it best not think overly much about what did occur when my plans came to fruitition, for there will be time enough during the penning of this tale to brood over and deservedly castigate myself for what became the crowning jewel of all those not inconsiderable transgressions committed in my life. I must needs follow my own advice and not jump ahead of the tale.

I see I've also taken to the interminable habit of introspection, and this will not do …

A renewed tempest was raging about us as we turned up Brady Street, wind plowing the long fallen snow now indistinguishable from any other London muck. It had long since lost that visual appeal those who are inclined towards dramatic prose will oft apply to this wintry precipitation. The streets were deserted at this hour in conjunction with the cabbie's understandable aversion to braving this weather. Certainly, we'd not espy one even under normal conditions on this ominous road lit only by a solitary gas lamp flickering up ahead, signaling the entrance to the old burial grounds. As a rule, I do not dwell on such things during a case, but my companion's old leg wound, I knew, gave him a foul time in such inclement conditions, and it promised to be a weary trudge back.

"What a peculiar choice of words, Watson," I mused aloud, for after all, Watson does an excellent sounding board make.

"What's that?"

"Precious. Why that, when she might have said valuable?"

"To throw us off the scent?"

"Perhaps. It's a trifle, Watson. A simple word, yet it worries at my brain. There's an implication in it, but what can it mean? Logic is what I am able to grasp, not these inane riddles our gypsy friend has presented us with. For now, you can write me up as an ass, for it does appear insoluble to me."

"It would be to anyone. Have you not said yourself it's impossible to theorize with insufficient data? Considering we've learned nothing tonight, you can hardly be expected to solve the thing before the break of dawn."

"Oh, I shouldn't say that! We know for certain now we are in pursuit of the right track -- and what's more, have we not learned the layout of her humble residence?"

"I don't care for the implications of that."

"Very likely not."

"Holmes!"

I strategically changed the subject. It is one of my more superficial, though oft a most highly useful skill.

"I do hold fast to the belief our gypsy is somehow intimately connected with these crimes, and I do mean to learn more after tonight. But we shall dwell on that another time. I need the opportunity to think on the thing, to put my thoughts in order. And, at present, we have a more pressing matter that must be attended to, if it is cold, hard facts we seek."

"What do you propose to do?"

"To have a chat with our dear Inspector Cartwright. He commonly makes his rounds through these very side streets during the proverbial graveyard shift, accounting for how he was first on the scene of no less than three of the of the Buck's Row victims."

"Then, are we not heading a bit too near the murder scenes?"

"Hmph! With any luck, we may run into the man himself. Wouldn't _that_ be terribly gratifying?"

"No, I cannot say it holds much appeal."

"You are, of course, free to return to Baker Street, if only you should be so kind as to slip your revolver into my coat pocket before you leave."

"You're an awful shot, my dear fellow."

"Yes, I suppose I am," said I, smiling at him. "Well, well; it is unreasonable to expect a single mortal to be adept at _everything_."

Despite his misgivings, my companion never refused the chance to run his head into danger, especially on my account, no matter how poorly the odds were stacked against us or how perilous the situation. Nor, it can be argued, how fatuous were more of my schemes than I care to admit. Not for a fleeting second did it occur to me that my companion would abandon me tonight. The man can be reliable to a fault.

A conviction which proved true as we passed through a particularly darkened stretch bordered on either side by abandoned warehouses interspersed only with even darker side alleys. It was from one such alley, the one closest to us on our left to be precise, that I registered the faintest footfall crunch down upon the hard packed snow. Watson's battle ready reflexes hastened into action, for his revolver was already out of his pocket and cocked, while the man himself was more than willing to head down that alley without so much as a second thought. Not the wisest move considering this was not the hour of morning that inherently attracted virtuous folk. I stretched my arm out in front of him and placed a gloved finger over my lip before he went and did something courageous or stupid -- or both, simultaneously.

Still holding out my arm, I silently manoeuvered us against the crumbling brick wall, our figures obscured within the shadows. There in the darkness we stilled our breath, waiting with that invigorating apprehension that so often grips me in its thrall at the promise of imminent danger.

Yet none came, for the footsteps suddenly halted.

Our man was clever, leaving us in a position where our only option appeared to be walking straight down that alley, and in so doing, play directly into his hands. Armed we may have been, but generally it is a helpful thing to have a clear vision of one's target upon firing. No, no. If we followed our natural impulse to inspect that alley, we should find ourselves vulnerable to his designs.

With a silent gesture, I bade Watson remain on his guard whilst I started for the ground floor window of the brick workshop behind us. It was a simple thing to thrust my thin fingers through a jagged aperture in the glass and slide the lock soundlessly enough to climb in without rousing the suspicions of our friend in the alley. My intentions were to simply locate an alternate exit and take him from behind, yet just as my feet hit the dusty stone floors within, the glint of a highly polished blade flashed out of the corner of my eye, and before I had the chance to gather my senses, a dark figure mingling with the shadows themselves, sprang upon me from behind.

He was a bear of a man, arms locked round my throat, effectively muting my cries. I pushed back against him in attempt to throw off his balance and gain the upper hand in this struggle. As I am positive my dear Watson has had occasion to mention my strength is not insubstantial, it shames me to admit how sorely my baritsu skills failed me, even against so innately capable an opponent. All my struggling and attempts to dislodge myself from my attacker's clutches served only to infuriate him further, and in so doing, tightened his already unyielding hold upon my person.

That the brute was dragging me backwards with such a sheer force, the likes of which were unmatched by my most worthy fisticuff opponents.

Not only was he familiar with this particular workshop, I'd wager a month's rent this little rendezvous was a prearranged one, though this conjecture served naught but the unveiling of an entirely new line of inquiry. If this were so, then all my current surmises were most aggravatingly rearranged; for that my assailant moved with a purpose was no great deduction, as he deflected what should have been numerous collisions with stacked crates only just discernable in this palpable absence of light.

When he thrust through a back door leading into an enclosed yard reeking of quite the distinctive fetor which was effectively masked by the more pungent stench of rotting fish, my previous assessment became an explicit certainty.

" 'Ere now," the fiend drawled in a most affected accent "Why, it be Meester Sherlock 'Olmes 'imself. Fancy _that_."

With a flick of the wrist, my assailant managed to momentarily turn me towards him, and a well placed blow to the soft underside of my jaw coupled with a kick strong as a mule's own that had me doubled over forthwith, the breath thoroughly knocked out of me.

Utilizing his temporary advantage, he bore down on the small of my back with a clenched fist, resultantly sending me face first onto the cobbles. And as I writhed like a great imbecile clutching the ribs that, in all probability, were cracked in this one sided tussle, the blackguard's boot collided with the side of my skull.

In my defense, it was not as though I made no attempts at rallying myself, though I must needs impress how an immobilizing wave of nausea washed over me by the mere act of lifting my head.

Rolling me over onto my back, I felt rather than saw the razor sharp blade graze the sensitive flesh of my throat. Try as I may, it proved near impossible to determine where he ended and shadows began. He was the dark, and the dark was part of him.

As it was becoming rather a chore simply to will myself to focus, I was unable to properly judge where this phantom of a man stood, as even in my precarious state I saw fit to chance a well place kick to the knee caps -- yet to do so, one must be aware of where these alleged kneecaps are located in relation to himself. Despite this minor hindrance, some instinct deep within rallied for me to act, for undoubtedly this _was _our man, the Buck's Row Butcher himself. I'd stake my life on it. And here I was, at the mercy of this dastardly fellow, whiling the time away flat on my back.

This was _deucedly_ inconvenient.

From the crinkle of his attire behind my ears, it was now evident he was crouching at the back of my head, cleverly positioning himself in such a manner as to avoid any pummelings I might inflict upon his personage -- that was, should the ringing in my ears ever adequately stifle itself, enabling me to gather bearings enough to do the man harm. I cursed myself then and at this very moment for having no alternative but to remain where I had fallen, essentially subjugated to his murderous whims.

Pressing the blade down with undue force, his hot breath grazing my ear, he spoke barely over a whisper, nearly inaudible to me despite the close proximity. His speech no longer disguised; all the same it would prove impossible to recognize any incriminating inflections should the need arise. I have, you see, made something of a trifling study of the use of voice inflection, and have since penned quite the authoritative monograph upon the subject. Yet, that is neither here nor there.

"I trust, Mr. Holmes, you have a fair conception of the situation?"

I refrained from interjecting with a reply, as a knife pressed into one's throat with enough force tends to effectually render one speechless.

"Admittedly, I am rather surprised so lengthy a period has passed, so many needless victims tasted death, before you were summoned. Yes, such a pity, but why lament on the past? I myself would rather execute -- pardon the pun, if you will -- retribution than brood over the thing. Far more fulfilling a pastime, do you not agree?"

By now, I had regained sufficient coherency to make some attempt at thrashing the man, a pathetic flailing of my arms which served only to have both my hands restrained by his free one, and the blade embedded so deep the rise and fall of my windpipe was impeded, my flesh tearing as a stream of blood trickled down to my collar.

Even so, I continued to writhe under his grasp.

"With they way you carry on so, one might think you were not glad our game has, at long last, begun. Now, if you agree to settle yourself down a bit, we can proceed like gentlemen. There, that is so much better, Mr. Holmes.

"I do admit to having made numerous attempts to exact my vengeance upon you for a matter between us which came perilously near to ensuring my arrest -- and surely would have meant the gallows -- yet, you have been too skilled an opponent to match me thus far. I pride myself on being cunning enough to rival the devil's own wit. That, and a fair dash of creativity, as I am sure you will soon agree, I possess in abundance. There are but my assets in this life.

"Do you realize that I have devised a way to finally lay down my blow without so much as laying a finger on you? Congratulate me on my adroit undertakings! What's that? Such a contemptuous glare does not bode well on you Mr. Holmes! This game of mine promises to be so exquisitely enjoyable, for myself anyhow.

"You have always insisted there was nothing you so lived for as that mental exultation which stems from a particularly trying puzzle to solve. Well, I shall give you one, and good luck to you in solving it before the final murder! Oh yes, regrettably, there is to be only one more. And, seeing as I am a sporting fellow, I will even give you a heads up, as it were. Is that not generous of me?

"For each week that passes without that almighty brain deducing my identity, one more victim meets their end. Regrettably, as in the fashion of all good things, this must come to an end. In one month's time, that is, if you manage to remain standing on the game board for such a length, my final victim will be chosen -- has _already_ been chosen. If we are still engaged in our battle of wits at the closing of the month, I will do the honorable thing and bow out. After my final victim is taken, of course. Either way, I emerge victorious."

He began to lift the knife from my throat when he thought better of it, and pressed his lips back to my ear. "By the by, I am not who you must believe me to be. No, no. Please, do not associate me with that blundering amateur! His role in all this is complete, his task admirably, though sloppily done. I, Mr. Holmes, am _Jack The Ripper_.

"Good night, Mr. Holmes. Sleep well." Chuckling like the depraved lunatic he was, left his parting words ringing in my ear. "And pray, give my regards to your Doctor."

The knife blade was blessedly pried from my parched and burning throat only for me to be presented with another sensation, a sharp flash of pain throbbing within my skull. I fought the wave of dizziness but it fought back, until the silence and the dark were all encompassing. There was nothing now, not even the familiar constant buzzing in my brain from the rapidity of my thoughts …

**~ooOoo~**

I was not confident of what my own eyes were surveying. The fog was beginning to clear, objects and colors and textures taking more definitive shapes, yet it meant nothing, collectively, for my mind failed to register what these things were. A vague awareness of the ground rocking beneath me and the hollow, remote clicking of boot heels smacking stone, … someone running, I deduced.

Hmph. Deduce. Peculiar word, that. I wonder what it could mean.

The cold compression of a narrow, solid object against my temple, an echoing voice, my arm veritably wrenched from it's socket. Was I mistaken, or was I truly being ordered to rise on my feet? How very queer. Surely, I stood upright already?

"What's this, then? The lass fought back now, didn't she, you dirty dog?"

A shrill whistle resounding behind my eyes, the piercing nature of it inducing a ferocious pounding in the general area of my skull. It was enough to rouse me further into consciousness, the shapes swirling about me solidifying into something more recognizable. The blasting in my brain may have been made infinitely more tolerable if whatever had a hold of me would kindly cease this infernal tugging of my arm. This was entirely intolerable!

The sudden halting of those frantic footfalls, the subsequent crashing of a blasted heavy door being slammed shut.

"Drop your pistol, Cartwright -- drop it, I say, or I'll shoot your damn hand off!"

That voice seemed to compel my thoughts into taking form, lifted the haze, shook me into reality.

"_Watson?" _If I spoke this aloud, I cannot rightly say, although I have the distinct recollection of my lips moving, and breath passing betwixt them. My gaze locked onto the man, and I must have made some insensible groan, for those cerulean eyes of his flashed down upon me, going wide with concern, taking in the woeful sight I must surely have presented.

In an instant, he was kneeling at my side, calling out my name and shaking me into attentiveness. All the while, pointing his old service revolver at the source of whatever -- whomever -- was jostling my arm in so vicious a manner.

"There will be no finagling his way out of this one, doctor. Your cronies at the Yard may turn a blind eye to his housebreaking but surely even Sherlock Holmes is not so above the law that a charge of murder can be so easily shaken off."

Murder, you say?

"You see here, Cartwright," Watson admonished "You know as well as I that no sane man would believe Holmes to be capable of this deplorable crime you accuse him of."

"Truly, doctor?" I may have been in a stupor, but so dense was the malevolence lacing his words that it was not lost on me. "Just you take a look at that --"

Here, my companion gave a startled gasp.

"Then you go on and tell me that a man covered in blood, who has been well out of your sight for nigh on ten minutes, and discovered unconscious, with the marks of defense upon him, in such close proximity to the victim … Go on. Do your best to convince me of his innocence. I always took the man to be a miserable, spurious charlatan, I did; now that has been proved true."

"I've no desire to convince you of anything. His innocence could not possibly be clearer to me."

"Be that as it may, Doctor," Another ear piercing scream of what I perceived to be a whistle, though its effect upon my state was much less profound this time around.

A whistle. That would mean hee was sending for backup. "It's gaol that waits for him now; no two ways about that."

Steady hands were beneath me, lifting me as a renewed current of sickness washed over me. "Easy, old fellow, I've got you."

Twining his arm through my own, my knees straightening not of their own accord, the flood of sensations that came with standing upright was far too overwhelming. Just as the blackness overtook me once more, I felt myself go limp against my Watson whilst the sharp clang of metal hitting the ground sounded somewhere by my feet.

"Ah, you see, Doctor. The murder weapon …"


	4. Chapter 4

_**Chapter 4**_

My recollection of events henceforth are but vague and disjointed. Therefore, this is one instance where I am obliged to defer to Watson's notes in accordance with the man's vivid, reliable memory for the purposes of advancing this account.

Two bobbies on the beat were rushing in through the alleyway, breaking through what remained of the significantly rotted planks of worm eaten wood that passed for a fence. More could be heard calling out in reply to Inspector Cartwright's furious blowing of his whistle.

With an incriminating bit of evidence for all the world to see and an unconscious consulting detective slumped in his arms, the good doctor resorted to the desperate act of firing a disarming bullet into the Inspector's shoulder. For his troubles, he was all too cognizant of the fact that the only thing separating him from a gaol term himself was time -- and that it was quite likely the Assizes may go so far as to convict him as accomplice to whatever deplorable act I myself was accused of.

As I said, reliable to a fault.

From there, he informs me of how he put to good use his once considerable rugby skills for the purpose of kicking loose crates at our pursuers, which I should think was a crude escape plan at best. Nonetheless, I suppose it did have its merits. Not the least of which being how it provided ample diversion, enabling him to weave through our pursuers and exit the way they had entered.

He informs me that part ways down the alley, he slipped upon a patch of ice concealed by shadows and a fine layer of grimy snow, and that is when his pace was sufficiently slowed to grant one of the dazed bobbies the opportunity to put a bullet in his back, mere inches below the ribcage. It appears that, even in this unhappy position, the doctor was able to right himself and drag me by the lapels of my coat to the relative safety of a passing hansom. It also seems that quite the row ensued, with the cabbie obviously disinclined to take on such a disreputable fare. In the end, though, it was Watson's Eley's No. 2 ***** which emerged the victor of the quarrel.

It does seem that as I was unceremoniously heaved into the cab like a bundle of rags, I regained lucidity to some small extent; enough, at least to direct him to the nearest of my bolt-holes on 19 Pinchin Lane before succumbing to unconsciousness once more.

My next intelligible memory is that of waking underneath several stifling layers of bedclothes. I wearily creaked open my eyes to catch sight of Watson sitting at the edge of the bed, bereft of waistcoat and shirt, gingerly stretching an arm behind his back to adhere cotton bandaging to a bleeding wound on his lower back.

The very vision of it startled me into full wakefulness.

I did make a valiant attempt at speech, but found my throat was unbearably parched, and burned like the very devil at the simple act of trying to form a sound. My own head was wrapped in several layers of bandage, the feel of it under my fingers reminding me of a man shrouded in black, standing above me, his laughter tangibly evil.

A fire was crackling in the hearth, and on the dusty bedside table a gas lamp flickered with light that caused a spasm of intense throbbing to flare though my temples the very instant my eyes met with it. I sucked in a breath, attempted to sit upright against the headboard -- which only intensified the pain tenfold and induced a particularly violent bout of sickness that would have otherwise stained the linens had Watson's reflexes not been so quick. He had a basin shoved underneath me and a rug over my shoulders in practically the same instant -- I oft find cause to believe him bereft of deductive abilities, but one would be unable to deny the man _is_ quite the competent physician.

"Glad to have you with us again, old fellow," he remarked as the last of the retching subsided.

"How long have I been so … indisposed?"

"Going on a full four-and-twenty hours." He rose from the bed, depositing the basin on the floor before forcing me to lie back down despite my sensible protestations regarding this unprofitable pastime of dawdling when I might otherwise be occupying my profound faculties resuming an investigation of vital import.

"Holmes." He was rubbing his temples, never a very promising sign as it is almost always a precursor to a flaring of his redoubtable temper. I do not consider myself a nervous man, but air guns and Watson's bull-pup do have the tendency to stir the reaction in me.

"I am not sure you grasp the concept of concussion. Us medicos, you see, have an amusing theory amongst ourselves, that when one suffers grievous injury to the head and loss of consciousness ensues, the patient requires considerable rest to facilitate the healing process. Also, we've the absurd notion that the application of ice at regular intervals relieves any swelling that may further injury to the brain. Not to mention that you, my dear fellow, are exhibiting symptoms of by far the most severe concussion of my medical experience. But again, all this is merely outlandish conjecture."

"Bah. It is a widely known truth that doctors are foremost amongst exaggerators. I am well enough to --"

Halloa. _That_ thought fluttered off rather expeditiously. I was musing over the matter for a short moment when the doctor, I dare say, began staring at me with far too much amusement in his features.

"Do go on, then. Pray, enlighten me as to precisely what it is you are well enough to do."

"Continue this investigation." Ah, That was the very thing. "I must -- there is something I must do; I am sure of it! He told me, but I cannot -- oh, confound it all!"

Watson lowered himself back onto the side of the bed, one knee bent on the mattress while he leaned over, checking me for fever with the back of his hand.

"Holmes, who is 'he'? Was there another man in that yard with you?" "Of course there was!" I tried my hand at sitting upright again but managed to swerve into my companion's bad shoulder for my efforts. He winced instinctively, but otherwise ignored the throbbing I know succeeds any pressure on the limb, and propped me up against the headboard. Once the room ceased its infernal spinning, I was able to continue.

"Of course," said I in a measured tone. "_He_ was there, Watson, and what's more, he confessed to -- no, that is not it. Why can I not remember clearly?"

"When one suffers a blow to the skull, it is no remarkable thing for a lapse of memory as to what immediately led up to the injury. Though, you are certain there was another man in that yard before Inspector Cartwright discovered you?"

"Entirely certain. Jove! I can hear him whispering to me but whatever he is saying I do not know. But it was vital, Watson. That I know surely as my own name."

"And that would be?"

"Your sense of humour, doctor, does not amuse."

He chuckled and patted my knee before heading off into the water closet with the soiled basin. It was a testament to the state of my disorientation that I had not noticed just how profuse was his wound until this point. Only moments ago I'd seen him apply a thick layer of gauze and bandaging to the area, but blood was plainly seeping afresh through his dressings.

"Watson, you're bleeding! We must get you to hospital this instant!"

"This from my recalcitrant patient, eh? Really Holmes, do not panic yourself so. I should be a poor physician indeed were I unable to manage such a trivial wound." My friend finished off the thought with an exasperated sigh as he re-entered the room and slipped on a wrinkled, blood encrusted shirt draped over the foot of the bed.

"That does not appear trivial to me; and I thank you to observe I am decidedly _not_ panicked," I sniffed, rather put out by the man's highly unmanageable obstinacy. Verily, it worsens with each passing year, and I am utterly at a loss to pinpoint its origin. I cannot say it was present when we met, therefore, I believe there is some outside influence impacting him so profoundly.

"Besides," he went on, reclaiming his seat at the side of the bed. "Half of Scotland Yard must be on the lookout for both of us by now, so neither of us are at liberty to freely roam the city."

"Now, why on earth would the Yard care a whit as to our whereabouts? Do you know I'm beginning to have a care over your sanity."

"Holmes, I do not quite know how to broach the subject, but I suppose the most straightforward manner is always best." Somehow, when he settled his hand over mine, I knew to be worried.

"When you broke into that workhouse, I was so uneasy in my mind about the entire situation, I had every intention of shadowing you, whether or not you became vexed with me over it, I did not care overmuch. Be that as it may, in a stroke of perfectly foul luck, Inspector Cartwright approached from across the way -- and if I may say so, that regular lout was a bit eager to slap me in a pair of bracelets, even _after_ recognizing me. Let me tell you; he molested me for information for many minutes, and try as I might to shake him, my efforts were in vain. I never did disclose that you were with me, but unless he is a greater ass than we give him credit for, he must have known you were nearby.

"Anyhow, the discourse between us was growing heated when we heard a crash somewhere behind the workhouse. Cartwright took off down the alley, and I the very way you entered, hoping to cross your path, but … instead I found the cur dragging you off to Heaven knows where, with his revolver pointed at your head."

Taking a deep breath, Watson squeezed my hand tighter, though perhaps more for his benefit than mine.

"Obviously, you had been struck on the head, but what a fine mess was made of you. I was not expecting that, nor to see such blood when you turned towards the sound of my voice. All that was recognizable were your eyes; that is how blood soaked you were.

"This was about when Cartwright and myself exchanged heated words, culminating with him accusing you of murder. Yes, old fellow, I was as flabbergasted as you are now. But there _was_ a corpse; a woman, I believe, so horribly mutilated I am ashamed to admit that even I had to look twice, just to assure myself she was indeed human. How it can be that one man is capable of perpetrating such acts upon another soul is unfathomable to me.

"There seemed to be a blood stained knife on your person, and I am loathe to admit things do seem black against you. So, I am afraid it is wholly out of the question for either of us to go traipsing around London at the present time."

Ah. This was an incommodious set of circumstances. Naturally, it would be a hamper to my investigation, but dropping the thing altogether was indubitably out of the question, for it is not in my nature to allow such a trifling setback disarrange what promised to be an excellent challenge. And there was also the question of this mysterious personage whose figure, voice were beclouded in my mind's eye.

No matter. It would all come in due time, but until it did, I must think of an alternate route to the continuance of this case.

I realized my companion still clasped my hand, causing me to deduce the reason for such irrational displays of sentiment.

"Watson! I've nothing to do with any murders -- say you believe me!"

"Not within the breadth of a single heartbeat have I ever doubted your innocence." Untangling his hand from mine, he turned to me, face drawn with exhaustion. "I think a good rest can only do us both a world of good."

"How can you even consider idling when there -- when we -- I am not -- Oh, heavens! All I am certain of is that too much time has been wasted already. How long have I been slumbering the day away, anyhow?"

"You are perseverating. Not that it could possibly be a symptom of concussion, mind you. Although, to answer your question _again_," said he as he laid back on the bed with a heavy sigh. "We have been here a full day."

"Do not make yourself overly comfortable there, old boy. I fully intend on making some use of myself, just as soon as I disentangle myself from all the bedclothes you have buried me under."

"Holmes." I very well did not care for the sound of that. His eyes were fixed upon the cracked, peeling ceiling, yet I would swear they somehow bore straight through me. "You are not, I repeat, _**not **_moving from this bed if I must _bind you to the bleeding bedposts_." The latter was spoken through clenched teeth, apparently to accentuate any dramatic effect he may have wished to convey.

My only reason for assenting was, having stoked the good doctor's ire, I must say I found it believable he would do exactly as he'd threatened.

I never do get his limits.

**

* * *

**

"_By the by, I am not who you must believe me to be …"_

"_Holmes, can you hear me?"_

_Heavy breathing. Laughter. No air. Why could I not take in a full breath? _

" … _do not associate me with that blundering amateur!"_

"_Who are you, then?"_

"_I have already told you. Does the estimable Sherlock Holmes not recall this?"_

"_Have you, really?"_

"_PLEASE, Holmes, please! Wake up, man!"_

"_Good night, Mr. Holmes. Sleep well …my regards to your doctor …" _

I shot up in the bed, a cry strangled in my throat. There was something more to this, yet another veil shrouding a case that was already murky as the thickest mire.

"Holmes, thank heavens! Your pulse was so weak, I was beginning to wonder if … if that blow to the head was not more serious than I had at first suspected." Watson was standing before me, fully dressed but in a state of _dishabille_; his grey overcoat practically hanging off one arm, unshaven, sans hat and collar, a most singular occurrence for a man of his military habits.

"Are you able to stand?" Why he bothered to even inquire, I was at a loss, for his hand was behind my sweat soaked back, urging me off the bed and onto my feet. A renewed surge of dizziness overtook me; it was apparent the doctor realized this, and yet he pulled me up despite it, draping my greatcoat over my shoulders and hefting me up over his shoulders in such a fashion that I need not have heard the bitten back moan to understand how this smarted both old wounds and the newly acquired one.

"Watson! Explain."

Ignoring my injunction, he made his way to the back window, swatting aside the heavy celadon drapes and proceeded to open it to the brisk night air. At the selfsame instant, there came an insistent rapping upon the front door, which seemed to have the most peculiar effect upon my companion, in that he proceeded to shove me out the window onto the fire escape quite brusquely.

Apparently, I must have stood on the sill for some moments, and I surmise this because I was greeted with a harsh shove and practically _growled _at me to move my personage onto said fire escape, albeit, the doctor's words were spoken in more vulgar a manner than I have chosen to recount within these pages.

"Whatever for? One moment you threaten to fasten me to the bed if I dare not rest, now you insist upon shoving me out the window? What's this all about, man?"

Another pounding on the door, yet our visitor failed to identify himself, which was, even to my muddled mind, a strange sort of thing to do to a fellow. This second outburst upon the door sent Watson's nerves all a flutter, inducing him to shove me with even more force so that I was now clutching the sides of the window frame, one foot stationed upon the fire escape , the other perched on the sill.

"WATSON!"

I am of the belief that my admonition was well deserved, yet all it got me for my pains was a hand clasped over my mouth and a wild, startled glare from my companion. _"Shhhhh! _Have you no sense; they will hear!"

"I am prepared to shout down these walls if you do not enlighten me as to what in blazes is going on here!"

"Fine," he relented, eyes not focusing on me, but darting to and fro. "Though you shall have to accept the abridged version."

"That will do. Proceed."

"Lestrade paid us a visit while you were sleeping. The cab we took last night, it was traced. Scotland Yard located the driver and coerced him into divulging the address he'd taken us to. Not enough time to tell how he intercepted this information -- just know Holmes, that we have a trustworthy friend in the Inspector. But, as I suspect this is Cartwright with a warrant for our arrest as we speak, pray, do commence moving immediately!"

We were winding our way down the spiral fire escape from our top floor flat when a hail of gunfire rang out over our heads. Assuredly, they could hear our feet colliding with the wrought iron steps but so far as neither of us was hit from so close a proximity, I decided they must have as much trouble seeing us in the gloom as we them.

The last step was positioned a great distance from the street below, and as Watson helped me off this, I became aware of a lack of lit streetlights. They all seemed to have been snuffed out in tandem, immensely aiding our successful escape. Perhaps … perhaps friend Lestrade _was _the best of the professionals.

We were well on our way down the block, leaving in our wake a troubling amount of footprints in the snow lined streets when Watson finally dared speak.

"Where, to now, old fellow?"

My concussion, I maintain, had robbed me of any modicum of common sense which was not knocked out of my skull, for I made my response without so much as turning the thought over in my mind.

"To brother Mycroft."

* * *

_* One of the good doctor's revolvers, which it may be remembered, I requested he bring along in the case he has so garishly entitled "The Speckled Band."_


End file.
